Treasure Island

Satish Verma

(5-6-1935)

Scissors


The window was closing.
Whole life went by,
to understand oneself,
trying to find the true meanings of words,
using myself as a bait.

To read or not to read the unwritten,
blank page. A dot
a dash, a comma, parenthesis.
They were trying to find
the signature pains.

A green rust starts burying
the crumbling wall. The cognitive
climb gets a setback. Suddenly
the peeling off starts, of makeup.
You stand naked.

Submitted: Friday, July 05, 2013
Edited: Thursday, July 18, 2013
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